रामेण भरतं प्रति कच्चित्प्रश्नैः राजधर्मोपदेशः

In the previous sarga Bharata had fallen at Rāma's feet and Rāma had raised and embraced him. In this sarga a long series of questions about his welfare flows from that embrace. It is known as the "kaccit sarga", the sarga of "I trust that…", in which Vālmīki teaches the whole art of kingship in the form of questions. Rāma saw Bharata lying on the ground with matted hair and bark clothes, hands joined, painful to look at, like the sun at the end of an age. He recognised his brother only with difficulty, pale-faced and wasted, and took him by the hand; that "only with difficulty" measures how Bharata had changed — in a month he had become almost a stranger. Rāma kissed his head, embraced him, set him on his lap and questioned him tenderly. His first questions all touch their father: "Where was your father, dear one, that you have come to the forest? While he lived you had no business coming to the woods. After so long I see Bharata come from far away, and hardly to be recognised in this wilderness — why have you come to the forest? Is the king still alive, that you are here? Has the king, in his misery, not suddenly passed to the other world?" So Rāma draws near the truth but does not say it himself, and that is the pathos of the sarga: the questioner does not yet know that the answer will change his whole life. The little word kaccit is used more than sixty times in this sarga; it asks a question while expecting the desired answer — "I hope it is so." Each question is therefore really a piece of instruction, for what is asked about is implied to be what ought to be done. In this way Vālmīki weaves a treatise into his poem as dialogue.

Next the questions spread, one after another, through the family and the household. "Gentle brother, your ancient kingdom has not slipped away from you while you are still young? Do you serve your father, you whose valour is true? Is King Daśaratha well — true to his word, settled in righteousness, the performer of the royal consecration and the horse sacrifice? Is that learned brahmin, ever devoted to righteousness and full of splendour, the preceptor of the Ikṣvākus, honoured as he should be? Is Kausalyā happy, and Sumitrā, blessed in her sons? And is the noble queen Kaikeyī content? Do you honour your family priest — well born, modest, deeply learned, free from envy and watchful over the rites? Does the man in charge of your sacred fires, who knows the ritual and is wise and upright, always tell you in good time what has been offered and what is yet to be offered? Do you honour the gods, the ancestors, your servants, your teachers and those who are like fathers to you, the old, physicians and brahmins?" The order is not random: first the kingdom, then the father, the family preceptor, the mothers, the priest, the fire-offering, and finally all who deserve honour. The poet shows that the root of a king's duty is his duty at home; a man who does not honour his elders in his own house will not uphold righteousness in the realm. Living in the forest, Rāma still remembers all this; not a corner of Ayodhyā has slipped from his mind. Notice too that he does not ask a single question about his own claim to the kingdom; every question concerns Bharata's duties. That shows how free he is of desire: the man who gave up the kingdom thinks only of its protection, not of getting it back. "Those who are like fathers" covers those who are not fathers but are honoured as such, senior kinsmen and teachers; physicians too are named, for honouring them is always part of a king's duty. As for the fire-offering, the point is "in good time": the sacrifice lives by its times, and a priest who fails to remind the king of them is at fault.

Then the questions turn to the ministers and to counsel. "Do you esteem your preceptor Sudhanvan, master of arrows and the finest missiles and learned in statecraft? Have you made your ministers men who are your equals — brave, learned, masters of their senses, well born and able to read another's intentions?" Then Rāma states a rule outright: "Counsel is the root of a king's victory, when it is kept close by ministers who carry its burden and know the treatises." This one verse drops the form of a question and states the principle plainly, and it gives meaning to the questions that follow. "You do not give in to sleep? You wake at the proper time? In the last watches of the night do you think out how to gain your ends? You do not take counsel alone, nor with too many? Does the counsel you have settled not spread through the kingdom? When you have decided on an undertaking of small outlay and great return, do you begin at once and not let it drag? Do other kings learn of your undertakings only when they are done or under way, never while they are still plans? And is what you or your ministers have resolved, though never announced, not guessed by others through reasoning and inference?" These questions return again and again to one thing: keeping counsel secret. When the king wakes, with whom he consults, when he begins, how others come to know — all depends on secrecy. Sudhanvan is named only here; he seems to have been the Ikṣvākus' teacher of arms, and his two epithets cover both archery and statecraft. To read another's intentions from outward signs is a rare gift in a minister, and "those who carry the burden" are the ones who bear the weight of deliberation. One verse holds three questions: not alone, not with too many, and not let loose; the middle way is praised, and Rāma later spells it out as "with four ministers, or three". "Small outlay and great return" is a well-known mark of good policy: great gain at little cost.

The next passage holds that the quality of helpers matters more than their number. "Do you prefer one learned man to a thousand fools? In a crisis over means a learned man can bring about great good. Though a ruler keep thousands or tens of thousands of fools about him, there is no help to be had from them. But one minister who is wise, brave, capable and clear-sighted can bring a king or a prince to great fortune." These three verses say one thing in three ways: as a question, as a denial and as a rule. Then comes the order of appointment: "Are your chief servants set to great tasks, the middling to middling ones and the lowest to the lowest? Do you place in the highest offices ministers who have passed the tests of integrity, who served your father and grandfather, who are pure and the best of their kind?" The tests are well known in the science of government: of righteousness, of wealth, of desire and of fear, and only a minister who has passed them can be trusted. Those who served father and grandfather have served the family for generations, and their loyalty is already proven. In these five verses the poet lays down a single principle: a king does not do everything himself but puts fit men in fit places, and that is where his skill lies.

Then the questions touch punishment and the army. "Son of Kaikeyī, are your people not so galled by harsh punishment that they despise your ministers throughout the realm? Do they not despise you as a harsh taker of taxes, as priests despise a fallen patron or women a mere lecher?" The two comparisons are sharp: a king who taxes too heavily is cast out of men's regard like a patron whose offerings priests refuse to accept, or like a man who lives only for lust, whom even women scorn. Then a maxim of policy: "The man skilled in stratagems and learned in policy who is bent on corrupting your servants, bold and coveting your throne — the king who does not destroy him is destroyed himself." Such a man, if he corrupts the king's servants and covets power, threatens the king's very life. Then the army: "Have you made your commander a man who is confident, brave, steady, intelligent, pure, well born, loyal and able? Are your leading officers strong, skilled in war, proven in deeds and valiant, and do you honour them as they deserve? Do you give the troops their rations and pay at the proper time, without delay?" Then the reason: "When rations and pay are late, hired men turn furiously even against their master, and that is counted a very great disaster." And last: "Are all the men of good family devoted to you above all? Do they give their lives for your cause with a single mind?" Mild punishment, a worthy commander, timely pay and loyal servants are woven together because they all have one fruit: the army's loyalty. The ancient art of government saw clearly that discontent among soldiers is more dangerous than the enemy, and the question of pay finds its natural result here: men lay down their lives for the king who looks after their welfare.

Next come the envoy, spies and enemies. "Have you made your envoy, Bharata, a man of your own country, learned, capable, quick-witted, shrewd, who says exactly what he was told to say? Do you watch the eighteen offices of state on the enemy's side and fifteen on your own through spies, three to each, unknown to one another? Slayer of foes, do you keep your banished enemies and those who have come back always in view, never slighting them as weak?" Then an intellectual danger: "You do not keep company, dear one, with brahmins who follow the materialists? They are skilled only in mischief — children who think themselves scholars. With the great books of righteousness before them, these dull-witted men take up bare logic and talk to no purpose." Here Vālmīki condemns not reasoning but reliance on reasoning alone: the fool is the one who abandons the teachings of righteousness and deals only in argument. The envoy must be a man of the realm, since a foreigner cannot be trusted with secrets, and his chief virtue is to repeat his message exactly as given, not change it by his own judgement. The spies work three to each post without knowing one another, so that if one is caught the other two remain, and agreement between the three reports is the test of truth. And banished enemies who have come back must not be ignored; neglecting them brings a king to ruin.

Then the questions turn to the city and the countryside, in a single long sentence that runs over seven verses. "Ayodhyā, where our heroic ancestors lived of old, true to her name, strong-gated, crowded with elephants, horses and chariots, filled by the thousand with noble brahmins, warriors and merchants, each devoted to his own work, self-controlled and full of spirit, ringed with palaces of every shape, thronged with learned men, flourishing and prosperous — do you guard her well?" "True to her name" explains the name itself: Ayodhyā means the city no one can fight against. Then the countryside: "Graced by hundreds of sacred grounds, full of well-settled people, adorned with temples, drinking-stations and tanks, its men and women happy, bright with gatherings and festivals, its fields well ploughed, rich in cattle, free of violence, not dependent on the rains, lovely, rid of beasts of prey, free from every fear, enriched by its mines, free of wicked men and well guarded by my forefathers — does that countryside, Rāghava, live prosperous and at ease?" A land not dependent on the rains is one watered by rivers, so that its farming is secure. In describing the city and the country the poet does not list the king's duties separately; he makes the prosperity of the land itself the test of the king. The sacred grounds or shrines, the drinking-stations and the tanks are signs of public good; the mines are the source of the treasury; the well-ploughed fields and the cattle are its farming wealth. The two descriptions complete each other: the fortified city by its people, the countryside by its tillage.

Next, the farmers, the women, the elephant forest and the forts. "Are all who live by farming and herding dear to you? This world thrives and prospers when it rests on farming, herding and trade. Do you provide for them by securing what they need and warding off what harms them? A king must protect all who live in his realm as righteousness requires. Do you speak kindly to your women? Are they well guarded? You do not trust them too far, or tell them secrets? Is the elephant forest guarded? Have you plenty of milch cows? And are you never sated with gathering she-elephants, horses and elephants? Prince, do you rise early and show yourself every day in your finery to the people on the royal road? Do those in charge of your works neither all come before you without restraint, nor all get shut out? The middle way is right here. Are all your forts filled with wealth and grain, weapons and water, war-engines, craftsmen and bowmen?" Two points stand out. First, it is said plainly that farming, herding and trade are the foundation of the world; this is one of the three branches of knowledge a king must master, and the world's prosperity rests on it. Second, the middle way is taught, and it applies to every kind of dealing. About the women there are four questions: kindness, protection, not trusting too far, and not sharing secrets; the advice reflects the ways of a royal household of the time. The elephant forest, where elephants breed, is the basis of a king's strength. A king must be seen by his people, for a king who is not seen is forgotten. And with those in charge of the works, too much familiarity and too much neglect are both faults, hence the middle way.

Then the treasury, punishment and justice. "Is your income large and your spending smaller? Does your treasury not flow out to the unworthy, Rāghava? Does your spending go to the gods and the ancestors, to brahmins and guests, to your warriors and your friends?" These six are the proper recipients. Then three questions on justice: "Is a noble, pure-hearted man, falsely charged with a crime, never fined out of greed without being examined by those learned in the law? Is a thief, once seized, questioned, caught in the act and with good cause shown against him, never set free for love of money, bull among men? When a rich man and a poor one are in dispute, do your learned ministers look at the matter without taking sides?" And last, a dreadful warning: "The tears that fall from those falsely accused destroy the sons and the cattle of a king who rules by favour." This one verse is the essence of the whole passage on justice: punishment given out of partiality destroys the king's own line. Large income and smaller outlay sum up the science of the treasury, and "not to the unworthy" gives spending its direction. Four kinds of proof are hinted at in the question on the thief: arrest, questioning, eyewitness and a proven cause; a thief so convicted must not be released for a bribe. The fault lies with the king who governs out of favour or partiality: the tears of the wrongly accused destroy his children and his cattle.

The questions then return to the king's personal conduct. "Do you win over the old, the young and the chief physicians in three ways — with gifts, with goodwill and with kind words? Do you bow to your teachers and elders, to ascetics, gods and guests, to all the sacred trees, and to brahmins whose aims are fulfilled? Do you not harm righteousness for wealth, or wealth for righteousness, or both of them for desire, which is mere fondness and greed? Best of conquerors, you who know the right time for everything, do you divide your hours and give each its due — wealth, pleasure and righteousness? Do the brahmins who know the meaning of every treatise wish you well, together with the people of town and country?" Then a long list: "Unbelief, falsehood, anger, carelessness, procrastination, avoiding the wise, sloth, slavery to the five senses, brooding over affairs alone, consulting those who do not understand them, failing to begin what has been decided, failing to keep counsel secret, neglecting auspicious rites, and rising against all enemies at once — do you avoid these fourteen faults of kings?" A list spread over three verses is the poet's way of bringing the summary of a treatise into poetry. Honour is threefold, in wealth, in heart and in word, and lacking any one of them it is incomplete. The three aims of life must not be allowed to obstruct one another, and the way to keep them in harmony is to divide the time, each having its own hour. The good wishes of brahmins, townsmen and country people are the visible proof of a king's righteousness. The list of fourteen faults is well known in the science of government; the first is unbelief and the last is fighting all enemies at once — it begins with a lack of faith and ends with a lack of judgement. Consulting those who do not see the purpose destroys any decision, and neglecting the auspicious rites means leaving undone what should be done.

The last part gathers up the technical groups of the treatises, then the manner of taking counsel, and finally a self-examination. "The group of ten, of five, of four, the group of seven as it truly is, the group of eight, the group of three and the three sciences; the conquest of the senses by understanding, the sixfold policy, calamities sent by gods and by men, the twenty kinds of undertaking and the circle of states; the march, the ordering of the army, and peace and war with their two sources each — do you give all these their due regard, wise one?" The poem only names these numbered groups and does not explain them: the ten are the vices born of desire, the five are the kinds of fortress, the four are the means of conciliation, gifts, division and force, the seven are the limbs of a kingdom, the eight the vices born of anger, and so on — which shows that this sarga, though poetry, is also a digest of a treatise. "Do you take counsel, as the books prescribe, with four ministers or three, both together and one by one? Are your Vedas fruitful, your rites fruitful, your wives fruitful, your learning fruitful?" The word "fruitful" comes four times with a different meaning each time: the fruit of the Vedas is right action, of rites success, of wives children, of learning discipline. "Is your judgement just as I have described it — one that brings long life and fame and holds righteousness, pleasure and wealth together? Do you follow the good and auspicious way of life, keeping to the path of the good, that our father followed and our great-grandfather before him? Do you not eat a well-made dish alone, but share it with friends who hope for it?" And a final verse, in a longer metre, gives the reward: "A king who bears the rod and protects his people by righteousness, having rightly won the whole earth, goes to heaven, a wise man, when he departs from here." So the sarga ends; Bharata's answer comes in the next.